Holographic Tattoo Part One

Chapter 1 The opportunity to live as a work of art resides in daily choices. June 3, 2014 Downtown Albuquerque, NM The right side of my body is going numb and my face is swelling. I begin to shake. “Take me to the appointment,” I slur to Amber. “They need to see this happen. I’ll try to keep myself afloat until we get there. I need help!” My muscles are weakening and I have difficulty standing. I can’t swallow. I reviewed my actions that morning. I was typing a list of symptoms for my doctor and moving around fine before I took a shower. I didn’t print them out! Think. What do I need to put in this bag? Oils! Clove. We ran out of Helichrysum. Which blends have Helichrysum in them? Trauma Life blend! What else do I need? I feel nauseous now. I might be hungry after this passes. Blueberries, for brain health, and coconut water to take the supplements with. Supplements. I need supplements. Focus! Amber helps me into the car. It feels as if icepicks are jammed into the bridge of my nose and right temple. My vision is blurry. I wince. I take inventory of my symptoms to share with my doctors. Ice pick in the chest. Sharp pain clawing in my neck and at the base of my skull. My right ear feels weird. That sharp pain moves to different places throughout my body. Where are we going? I remember my acupuncture appointment at the Integrative Medicine Clinic that I attend. We’re running late! I hope this doctor can help me! I slur my words. “Traffic. Try. Side streets.” We’re lost! She’s panicking, and my brain, I don’t know how long I can teeter on edge like this. I can’t swallow. I hope I don’t pass out. Focus. Breathe. Remain conscious! Come on. Remain conscious. Breathe. Chapter 2 Thirty minutes later. At the clinic. In the car. I feel myself moving in slow motion. My senses feel magnified. The doctor in me tries to remain present and aware of this familiar barrage of symptoms. From that perspective, I feel reverence for this experience of my body’s innate wisdom. From my perspective as a patient, I feel terrified and confused. I notice the tremor in my left hand and cannot move my right arm. Then, I push the passenger door open with my left arm. I whisper to Amber, “Too weak to stand.” I slump in the seat. The car door remains ajar. Panic-stricken, Amber hurries into the clinic. We’re twenty-five minutes late. Here they come with a wheelchair. I don’t want to go in a wheelchair. The tone that sets. I’m too young for this to happen. I’m wheeled to a treatment room and gently assisted onto a treatment table. Amber checks me in at the front desk and enters the treatment room. She says to me, “They called 911!” She and I exchange a concerned glance. There’s a slight pause. Amber’s eyes are wide. I close mine. I hold out my right hand, but it doesn’t go where I intend it to go. Come on, hand. Go where I tell you to go. Okay. Focus! This has happened before. I can use my left hand to guide my right hand. I say, “My bag. The oils. Clove and Trauma Life.” After a year and a half of trial and error using holistic modalities as palliative care, I’d found a consistent temporary remedy for these events. I’d narrowed my essential oil choices down to two that worked well repeatedly. I chose Clove primarily for its blood thinning and antioxidant properties. I incorporated Helichrysum because it aligns with my cultural background, is traditionally used as an adaptogen for blood and lipids, helps support the nervous system, and has anti-inflammatory properties. This combination of oils temporarily alleviated symptoms for two events earlier this week. And those events had even more intense symptoms. I decided to continue to use what worked in my experience. But, we’d run out of Helichrysum. I worked with the resources we had and used a blend that contained Helichrysum. Amber asks how many drops of each essential oil I need and expertly allows drops to fall onto the palm of my hand. I slowly rub my hands together, still unable to feel my right hand. Then, my left hand guides the scented palms near my face. I inhale deeply and slowly through my nose and mouth. I stop inhaling as soon as I feel a sharp pain in my abdomen. Instinctively, I sense that I’ll be okay. Within a few moments, I’m able to speak in sentences. I am grateful and hope someone will identify these events' root causes. I’m hyperaware, and sense fear permeating the room. I feel trapped and want to get up. The familiar scent of pain wafts up from my body, coordinating with the increasing intensity of awareness within my body. There’s a sharp pain in my neck, back, and chest. It’s moving up the left side of my right leg. My head pain is dizzying, and the ever-present burning sensation underneath my skin amplifies a craving for relief. My acupuncturist stops in the room. I see her reach over and touch my leg, but I don’t feel a sensation that mirrors her contact. With focused eyes, she tells me, “Denise, I’ll contact your specialist, Dr. Prasad, and let her know what’s happening with you.” I say, “It’ll pass. I’ll be able to walk later, as soon as it passes through. That’s how this usually happens.” I was hopeful that my acupuncturist would take me in for my treatment. Instead, she hurries off. I’d shared this sentiment with my specialist before this event. She was the Chief of Internal Medicine and Integrative Oncology at the University of New Mexico. She took me on as a patient because of the complexity of my case.